That Stranger

Every day at sunset a man crosses the alley whistling. I like him. I've taught the lilacs who sit on the edge of our wall to say hi to him and I've told some of them to jump over his head and shoulders. I wish at my birthday he would whistle a birthday tune, knock on the door and hand me those dried withered lilacs. I would plant them in the garden next to the wall to bloom at the day of my death. Then after a while he might come and put them on my name whistling a funeral march....

Copyright 2007 Golshan Moslemi
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Barnwood magazine
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